Hate
by Broadwaypoetess
Summary: A day in the life of Blaise Zabini. His life, opinions, and statement of his fears (Boy!Blaise, obviously) My First Blaise fic.


_Disclaimer: My first Boy!Blaise fic. (The "baby book of names" in my living room considers "Blaise" to be a boy's' name, copyright 1987-ish, so a few years after it can be assumed when Blaise, Harry and Co. were born.) This fic is really just my basic thoughts of what Blaise encounters regularly at Hogwarts._

_Set in Sixth Year. Blaise's POV._

_Broadwaypoetess_

_Also, there's this idea of Blaise going around that he's a tall, black curly-haired, blue-eyed, pallid pureblood boy with Italian/Greek heritage. I like that. And I like the belief that he's a bit of an outsider and his parents were not Death Eaters. I do like this idea, but, I have some differences that I'll be expressing in future fics. I didn't copy my vision of Blaise from other fics, what I have written is how I envision Blaise._

_Er… so… yeah. It's "Blaise-fan idea" enough to keep them sexy Blaise fans happy. Oh you sexiful peoples!_

_ I don't think I'll have Blaise be addicted to coffee, maybe a smoker instead. Or a chocolate addict. Still planning Blaise in my mind._

_PG-13ish for rough language, angst, and some violence._

**Hate**

Slytherin. An odd House, and an evil Founder. Honestly, did good old Salazar know what he was creating? A House where all those in it would be branded as outcasts from the rest of the school? Ah, yes, and those exiled from the friendliness of the school taint their image more and act as though they're superior. And the sensitive, shy and scared ones in the beloved Parselmouth's House, they are made scapegoats when mocking Gryffindor or Hufflepuff won't do. Ah, Salazar, you bloody bastard. Bloody stupid fucking incestuous bastard. See? See? The scum I have to deal with! The Malfoy, the Montague, the Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson! How could you let them in here? Enchant a normally inanimate object and to say you want egotistical arses to lay in your Common Room.

"Zabini! What do you think you're doing?" a snapping noise. Draco Malfoy. Blonde-hair, snooty inbred—

"Nothing, Draco. Just rewriting my Potions essay before tomorrow's class."

I'm his character foil. Two pale kids but his white hair contrasts my long ebony hair, my hair making my blue eyes stand out. My brother's eyes before I saw them cloud over. Now, my brother was a Slytherin of casual intelligence. I pray that I could achieve that. I studied damn hard for my O.W.L.s last year, and I wasn't a part of Draco's little pouf squad that allied with Umbridge. I studied from my brother's old books and taught the meeker Slytherins while Draco was prancing around with the other Umbridge minions.

"_Re_writing it? God, sounds like something that mudblood would do!"

"Yeah, suppose it does."

My father beat my brother for saying that. I remember the day David, my brother, told me what the m-b word was. He told me that it was a "bad word" and I should never, ever say it. I heard one of his friends say it; it was the punch line in a joke. David snickered, but reprimanded him. Then, I think I was at Wizard Primary Education Institute, where they taught us arithmetic, grammar, reading, and whatnot. I said it during Reading. I used to stutter, and I still do when I'm overly nervous. I kept messing up and blurted something like, "stupid mudblood word!" I was eight. The teacher wrote a note, send it to my parents by the school's barn owl. I sat in the office for the rest of the day. Mum shouted when she picked me up from school. I didn't even get to walk through the path in the garden to get to the front door; Dad beat me so hard on my back, my nose was somehow bleeding. I think I coughed up blood. I saw my own blood on the dirt of the garden. Bloody dirt. Dirty blood. 

Draco sat beside me on the couch. The couch that I got to first and had my books all lain out. Bastard.

"Blaise, can I see your essay?"

"Aren't you in a N.E.W.T. class?" I asked, in my bored, uncaring voice I save for him, still remembering the sting of the word. I hate pretending I'm his friend. 

"How do you think I got there?"

"I'd prefer not knowing, Draco. I doubt it had anything to do with academics." 

"Like I always say, _it's not **what** you know, it's **who** you know_…"  
  
Well call me a Gryffindor fairy and put that on a Muggle greeting card! Who he knows, indeed! His father doesn't _know_ anyone. He's a liar, manipulative, greedy, and cold. He uses fear. My father told me. We were never part of those supporting the Dark One, and not against him either. No, we were laying low. My mother had Death Eater friends that got cold feet, she protected them, defended them. While Draco's father killed, Mum told me that she saved lives. She was actually friends with a few Muggles.

Again, whom does he know? Our Head of House? Mum was a few years ahead of him in school, as was Dad. Apparently our Head had a vendetta with a handful of Gryffindors and Draco's father helped him once or twice. My father was a closer friend and helped him more! Why don't I receive the special attention? Because my father doesn't need Professor Snape to reassure him of their friendship by complimenting me loudly in class as I sit on my pansy arse and mock Harry Potter. I don't know what Mr. Malfoy does, but my father is a better man than him!

"I'm sorry, Draco, I guess I'm not as social as you. But, considering that it's _who_, not _what_, I don't believe that you need to copy my essay…"

"Please, my friend…" he answers, trying to make his voice smooth and controlling.

"A Galleon."

I'm too good to waste my talents. Ah, if he copies, he won't learn, ergo, more copying for a price. He has money to spare.

"Fine, a galleon, then."

Damn, I should have raised it.

"All right, Draco, but next time the fee will be higher…"

He paid me, took my essay, his own parchment and performed a Copying Spell, and the edges of my words were lifted, the flow of the sentences twisted about and placed on the bastard's parchment. He sat on the couch, editing my perfect essay and changing about the words to reflect his own speech. He handed back my essay with a mock flourish. I grabbed it and walked over to the Dormitories, smoothing out the creases. As I opened the door, descended the steps to the Sixth Year Boys' room, and entered, a loud squeal broke the silence of the Common Room.

"Ooooh Draco! Hogsmeade trip next Saturday!" Pansy Parkinson shrieked and giggled as I heard her jump on the couch, landing with a combination of a _thud_ and a _fwop_ beside Draco.

I throw my bag on the bed. God, I hate Pansy. She's so irritating. Why in hell is Draco with her? (Maybe they're cousins… "Keep it in the Family…") There are other Slytherin girls that quietly coo over Draco, the shy ones. Ismene, Margarite, and Katherine to name a few. They sit quietly in class, striving for the best grades (only after the Gryffindor "know-it-all" as Professor Snape puts it), and when they spare themselves the chance, they idolize Draco. Disgusting, really.

And disgusting… I left the dormitories only to find Draco and Pansy snogging on my nice couch and the rest of the Slytherins quickly retreating to their dormitories or trying to hide in the corners of the room in order to block out the horrible scene before them.

Resisting the urge to pull an Oedipus and find something pointy, I bolted out of the Common Room.

I ran off until my breathing grew heavy. Dinner was about to start in an hour, so I walked around the Great Hall and to the doors leading to the courtyard. The ground was covered in the browns, reds, and oranges of autumn. Then I saw it. A thestral.

I hate them, thestrals. Every twisted, rotting, bloody, blackened horse, every shudder of those morbid wings reminds me of David's low days. The times where I would walk in his room, inquiring if we could play catch, or wrestle or another Muggle boy pastime, and instead find him staring out into a cold galaxy. The spaces in his mind.

I know now that he was going crazy, that he was losing himself. Trying to make sense of mankind and life. He was a Slytherin, a quiet kid that studied, was picked on by many of his House and forgotten by the rest of the school. Almost like me. And, oh God, he loved Muggle things. Motorbikes, Playboys, cigarettes, beer. He wanted to be a Muggle Studies professor, live with Muggles as well. Mum did that. She was pureblood, naturally, like many of the House, and a "blood traitor", and the vast majority of Slytherin loathed her for it. But, she was immune. She let the comments slide off and away from her, like drying off from a downpour. With David, it was more like he was a snake shedding its skin. The snide remarks would stick to him until the shame and self-loathing left him after a few months.

But he never stopped loving Muggle things. David had a motorcycle. Bitching. A real Muggle one. No spells. He take me out for rides. Oh God, I remember squeezing my seven-year-old hands onto the handlebars, David's over mine, squeezing harder, steering. Me and my big brother protecting me.

Christ, I'm so much like him. It's scary. I like Muggle things and I look a lot like him too, except my hair's sort of curly. I fear that I'm going to be like my brother, full of ambition, but never amounting to much because of my own insecurities and hate. And I fear that someone will watch me die. And they will have to see thestrals.

I hate those damn things.

_Fin_

_(This is my first and basically sets Blaise's mood. Read my second one. I wrote it the next day on a Blaise high..)_


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